


take our places in the dark

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: 'the campaign is a lot shorter than you think once you stop doing new side quests', 'you'/my rk is the Biggest Fucking Nerd, Gen, Moria | Khazad-dûm, and should probably not be allowed to just nerd around in orc-infested ruins, bc my first time thru moria i spent way more time exploring than story-ing, mildy to wildly inaccurate dwarves sorry about that, moria time! vol2 spoilers for those so concerned, tho not speaking khuzdul is. a significant obstacle, totally aside from what you need to do to level there, yeah the title for this one was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: There are dwarves intent on taking back Moria- again. You are curious by nature and they could use the help.
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. the iron garrison

**Author's Note:**

> [title note i probably should have added earlier- borrowed from 'trials' by starset]

You hear of a company of dwarves seeking to reclaim Khazad-dûm once more. You are curious and eager to travel again and so you find them outside the Hollin Gate and offer your assistance, and you haven’t felt quite this tall since you left the Shire. There was another expedition with a similar goal not so long ago, but no word has been heard from Balin's company in years. This new expedition may fare no better. They are wary, at first, of an elf meddling in such great dwarvish matters, but the truth is that they need the assistance and would have welcomed a party of elves from either Imladris or Lórien (at least at first). You are neither an entire company nor an agent of Elrond or Galadriel but you help where you are needed and soon enough the Iron Garrison welcomes you around their fires. 

In the beginning especially they will speak to you in their own language before realizing you do not understand Khuzdul. You have picked up a handful of words and phrases over time- curses and greetings for the most part- but they are of little use in discussions of pickaxes or the erie lake before the Doors of Durin. You are learning through exposure if nothing else, but you are far from fluent yet.

It is blessedly simple to be expected to do no more than carry things here and there or perhaps drive off a handful of orcs. Brogur hands you a pickaxe to help clear the last rubble from the Doors. It is symbolic only- they all wince at your inexpert swings and you quickly step aside. You do appreciate the gesture, at least.

There is movement in the water. The Black Pool has been devoid of any life all the time the dwarves have been working to clear the Doors, but something caused the collapse that blocked them, and recently. 

Bróin screams as he is pulled into the depths. You retreat with the Iron Garrison and in the chaos you cannot make out more than impressions of the Watcher in the Water. You call down lightning but it does nothing. You move beyond the Watcher's reach with the other survivors.

Far from giving up, the dwarves uncover a cache of ancient weapons and assault the Watcher once more. A runestone is a runestone- its power comes from your understanding and attunement to its nature. The Watcher's hide is too thick for your strength alone but the gashes opened by the dwarves' weapons give you the opening you need to fill its flesh with lightning. It retreats, shrieking, and at last the Iron Garrison looks upon their ancient kingdom.

A part of you has always delighted in exploration and the discovery of things lost. Khazad-dûm is not your ancestral kingdom but still you find yourself nearly as excited as the dwarves to move farther into the halls. Only the goblin camps so near the Dolven-view give you pause. There has been no sign yet of Balin's company but the halls of Durin are far from empty. 

Bósi coordinates the reclamation of the halls nearest Durin's Threshold with great success, but it is clear he was expecting more help from his cousin. You see in Brogur echoes of Laerdan and of Golodir- the grief of a parent. You know not how to help him.

You agree to search the old libraries with such eagerness that Bósi laughs at you for some time before he can tell you their locations. When you make it to the libraries, you find nearly all of the records are in Khuzdul. The runes themselves are familiar, but the words they form in combination are meaningless to you. You really should have expected that.

It is good to see Bori so animated again after you bring him the puzzle of Ongli and his mighty weapon. Zigilburk, an axe wrought entirely of mithril. How very dwarven. Brogur is skeptical of the whole matter but you are less so- stranger things have happened than the discovery of a fabled yet also unheard-of weapon.

You are no blacksmith nor are you possessed of the aesthetic sensibilities of a dwarf, but you must admit the majesty of the Heart of Fire. The Iron Garrison celebrates the discovery for a full day in the retaken Twenty-first Hall. Bósi approaches you amid the revelry with two worn books, children's texts recovered from a former residential region off Durin's Way. Word has spread, it seems, that you are attempting to learn more Khuzdul in what downtime you can find. You thank him first in Khuzdul, poorly, then properly in Westron, then sincerely in Sindarin. The first makes him laugh, the second gets a friendly smile, and the third earns you only a blank stare until you translate it- losing much of the deeper meaning in the process of course.

There are orcs of the White Hand here in Moria. You have learned by now of the treachery of the White Wizard and his alliance with Mordor. Quite apart from the simple fact that one orc is bad for the returning dwarves and two is worse, Isengard’s meddling here can be nothing good. Bori’s attack on Ashpar’s stronghold weakens them, but they are far from uprooted.

The dwarves find the Book of Mazarbul. You learn the fate of Balin’s company. A shadow falls over the Iron Garrison.

You are preparing for war again. This is not the same as Angmar or Annúminas. You are preparing to weather a siege in isolated holdfasts against foes whose count you cannot guess- and in Moria you must think in three dimensions. The well at the crossroads is very deep indeed. Nothing will attack you from below, here.

Even greater than that following the discovery of Nâr-khelab is the celebration when you and Bori return from the Drowned Treasury with both Zigilburk and Bróin. Though the mood is light, the shadow of dread that hangs over the siege-camps never fully lifts. It is clearest in how few heed Bori’s call for a raid against Mazog’s stronghold in the depths of Nud-melek.

“It will be just like our raid on Stazgnâkh,” Bori tells them. “Only this time I will wield Zigilburk, and we will march openly to victory!”

“That makes it not like Stazgnâkh at all,” you tell him. He waves a hand in dismissal.

“Minor details, and beside the point. I will take Zigilburk and with it slay Mazog and thus end the line of Azog!”

You are less than certain that a frontal assault is the wisest choice, all the more so now you know they have the aid of Dol Guldur- more terrible even than Angmar, and far, far closer to home for you. Bori will not be dissuaded, though, and you cannot very well let him go alone.

Gorothúl feels far, far too much like Mordrambor. It is all you can do to stand your ground with Bori. The harsh shouts of the orcs of Stazgnâkh are all that keep your mind here and not flying back to Tinnudir and Gador Gúlaran. You cannot tell if Gorothúl is another Black Númenórean or simply a student of similar magics. You do not care. You want _out_.

You are released. Bori is taken. The others are killed. You are too relieved to be away from Gorothúl to mourn them yet, and soon too caught up in defending the Iron Garrison’s outposts from Mazog’s counterattack to take the time. In the aftermath, at least, you can stop long enough to think. You drink to the memories of the fallen with the other survivors. You are accustomed to drinking in remembrance, but always before it has been a somber affair. There is sadness in the dwarves, no doubt, and many of them weep openly, but this is far more a celebration than a funeral. You even learn a handful of Khuzdul drinking songs that you hardly understand- and remember them the next day, the more’s the wonder.

You agree with Bósi when he says that the dwarves will not last long here without aid. You agree somewhat less when he asks that you be their representative to the elves of the Golden Wood.

“And why not?” he asks. “You are a friend to elves and dwarves both.”

“Not these elves,” you tell him. “Not anymore than I am a friend to the dwarves of the Iron Hills.” Bósi protests that many of the Iron Garrison hail from the realms of Dáin Ironfoot but that is not the point. You entered the woods of Lórien once, but it has been many years since then and you are as much a stranger to them as Bósi would be. Still, you are the closest there is here to a neutral party. You can sympathize now with Langlas, though things here are somewhat less immediate than those in Ered Luin were. Somewhat.

You do not realize until you leave the Mines how much you have missed trees. For certain, the great stone trees of the Second Hall are striking and a great testament to the skill of the dwarven stonesmiths, and the gardens of Tharâkh Bazân are a great surprise so deep underground, but there is a unique beauty in the splendor of the golden mellyrn of Lórien. Despite the orcs that plague Nimrodel, the Golden Wood itself is secure still. You walk into the wood until you are stopped by a border patrol and taken to Haldir to plead your case. You are released to wander the fringes of the Lothlórien and await word from Caras Galadhon. You are almost surprised that you are sent back to Moria. 

The dark seems ever more oppressive now for having briefly returned to sunlight. Even more so is this true in the Foundations of Stone, barely lit even by the great mirrors that bring the light of the sun into the deepest places of Khazad-dûm.

The red fungus gives off its own dim light and reeks of something sickly sweet, not unlike rotten fruit. There is an undertone of cherry that makes it smell nearly edible until you get closer. Globsnaga it is called, both by the orcs who have learned to fear its corruption and by Lenglammel and her party at Gwathrendath. You know nothing of the Black Speech. You think _snaga_ means slave but even that you would not swear to.

The endless stairs of Zirakzigil are spaced so that you cannot walk smoothly up, built as they are to dwarven proportions. You forget your mild irritation when you come upon rubble that blocks the uppermost stairs. You bring a familiar tattered grey hat back to the Shadowed Refuge and you know what you have confirmed for the elves of Lórien. Mithrandir is dead. It is another reminder that each victory has a cost. You do not want it- the truth or the reminder.

You fight your way into Azanarukâr in search of Lenglammel’s friend and none are with you to know if you are less merciful than perhaps even these creatures of darkness deserve. Magor does not know you well enough to know if this is unusual for you.

You know help is coming (if Magor can escape the cave, if he can reach Lenglammel in time, if they can make it back to you), but now you face the nameless horror Gwathnor alone. You have no choice. The terrible creature falls and you swear that they must feel the shaking even in the Twenty-first Hall. You never have the chance to ask- you are summoned to Caras Galadhon for an audience with the Lady Galadriel. If you are honest with yourself, you think this meeting nearly as intimidating as any battle you have fought.

The Lady of the Golden Wood bids you look into her mirror. There is fire, and battle and grief and eyes and a stand- one stand becomes many and there are eyes again, yellow, yellow eyes.

Galadriel still hopes to find Mithrandir alive. Perhaps she is right to do so. You try to hope as well.

You are named a friend of Lórien and given leave to wander among the public gardens. “Walk upon the grass and be joyful,” they tell you. “Your sorrows will not follow you there!” It is true that Lórien is peaceful in a way that no other is and you find it easier here to set down your pains. The Fellowship rests here. They are less one member now, though they all seem glad to see you. They beg news of the north and you tell them what you can, but in truth you have heard no more than they since joining the Iron Garrison’s expedition. Gimli at least is pleased to hear that a second reclamation is ongoing, though it is tempered with grief for Balin and his company. It is good to see the Fellowship and to know that they are as well as can be, but you came to Lórien with a purpose and every day you delay brings the Iron Garrison closer to defeat at Mazog’s hands.

You stand before the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien to beg aid for the Iron Garrison, and to that end you greet them in the dwarven fashion. Your Khuzdul is still weak, but the rest of the conversation takes place in your own tongue. You lead a contingent at Celeborn’s command back to Khazad-dûm, and though the Iron Garrison is grateful for their aid, to say the two groups are unfriendly would be a great understatement. The few days between your return to the Mines and your descent back into Zabadgathol are interminable and full of wounded pride. You are far too quick to take up Bróin’s plan to rescue Bori by the secret path- too quick, too, to accept the wisdom of kidnapping an orc king direct from his throne once you find that Bori is already gone. 

Bróin’s friends speak well of his recovery, as if every scar from his time in the Watcher’s lair will heal as easily as his leg. You know better- you think they do, too, but perhaps it is a dwarvish thing to speak like this. Bróin said that he had had his fill of adventure, after his return from Ghân-gharâf. He has spoken little of his time there, even to you and Bori. Those wounds run deep. You understand, and you do not fault him for his fear. You are, though, quite glad that he overcomes it in time to rescue you and Orvar in Rushdurinul.

Lord Celeborn does not agree that sparing Mazog was the wisest course. Still he and the Lady assemble the Hidden Guard and mobilize the warriors of the Galadhrim to march on Dol Guldur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dáin is technically king in erebor and not so much the iron hills by now isn't he? oh well
> 
> yes, i _did_ jump down the well to the waterworks, bc that quest dialogue is absolutely an invitation to do exactly that


	2. the hidden guard

The air in the southern reaches of Mirkwood is even closer than you remember. Even in the years you lived here before beginning your travels, you did not often venture this far south. Few did, and even of the ones who went well-prepared, fewer returned. Some among your circles called the avoidance of the southern forest fear, though others named it prudence. You cross the Anduin with your cousins from the Golden Wood and think _this is necessity_.

The first battles under the trees are short, vicious, and bloody. You help prepare the way for the vanguard of the Golden Host while your friends from the Iron Garrison skirt the edge of Lothlórien with their prisoner and the Hidden Guard assembles in Caras Galadhon. Issuriel and the dwarves that accompany Bróin you are familiar with already, but Raddir and the others you have only just met. You are wary of Achardor. His grief for his brother is still near and his anger loud. His animosity for the dwarves does not help either. You wonder why he so wished to join this company.

You are not sure which grates more on your nerves- Achardor’s repeated denouncements of near every aspect of your task or the Greyhammer brothers’ self-proclaimed expertise on all things orc. You spend as much time as you are able with either Bróin or Issuriel and find that their expressions often echo yours. Raddir declares that it is time to take the Downholt path and you are relieved. It is time to move at last.

This swamp is perhaps the most treacherous that you have seen- and you have seen quite a few swamps now. Mazog struggles against his shackles as the swamp creatures close in on you and Issuriel, but the dwarves of Nâr-khelab did their work well and he resorts instead to shouting for their attention. You are not quite sure if he is trying to get himself killed before he can be delivered to Dol Guldur or to set the creepers on the Hidden Guard and escape in the confusion. He gets neither result, and he mutters in his own tongue as you escort him to where Cúcheron waits.

Raddir is unbalanced when he meets you in the tunnels. The uncertainty in his face as he spins to face shadows is familiar to you. He has seen something, though he know not what. Your steps are ever warier as you bring Mazog through the tunnels to Sigileth. 

“I would give much to have Corudan with us right now,” she says quietly to you. She has told the Hidden Guard some few stories of her archer brother. You would not turn away another companion on this dangerous road. Sigileth’s knives spin in her hands as you lead Mazog on.

Raddir is dead at the edge of a stinking pool. You stop short when you see him. Mazog, too, is taken unawares by the sight. There is neither wound nor sign of poison and his face is peaceful. He might seem gently asleep were it not for the paleness of his lips and your uncomfortable surroundings. You are still trying to process the scene when Mazog laughs and sprints into the swamps. Towards Achardor.

Desperation gives you wings and your feet barely touch the muddy ground. You call out for Achardor and he just barely turns in time to meet Mazog’s feral assault.

“Raddir is dead,” you tell him between great breaths. Mazog lies dazed on the ground, though it will not last. “I don’t know…” anything. You do not know anything of what passed.

The survivors make their way to the scorched ruins of Audaghaim and cannot agree what to do next. You would almost call it bickering, but the stakes are far too high. So too is the cost, now. Raddir’s death still does not seem quite real to you. It is as if he is simply out scouting. You expect him to return any moment now. When you can stand the arguing no longer, you leave the basement for what had once been the common room of the inn, made habitable again by the Malledhrim for their own use in this campaign. You distract yourself herding the Greyhammers who have now more than once lost their way in the swamps. Rósar swears he saw the brothers’ departed grandmother and Stígurd claims a dozen dwarves of the Iron Garrison fallen in the orcs’ offensives. You saw nothing in the fog. You may have heard voices, familiar but long since gone, but you cannot be sure.

The rest of the Hidden Guard is no closer to agreement. You consult with the two rangers who have accompanied the Golden Host, but Prestadír and Idhrenfair have little experience with the darkest reaches of Mirkwood. You gain little information from the conversation, but it has been some time since you saw any who were not elves or dwarves and it is a welcome change to speak with Men- and Dúnedain at that. You cannot place, exactly, the difference between them and your more recent company, but you are certain it is there.

Cúcheron does not hide his frustration with his friends. Neither do you. You leave to scout the proposed paths yourself. If none of them will decide, you shall.

They do decide. You think you would much rather brave the orc-camps of the southern road than the Scuttledells, but Issuriel is right. Your strength still lies in secrecy and if you are discovered, the spiders at least will not report to masters in the tower. Or maybe they will- this task has gone poorly enough already.

“Not this way!” Cúcheron cries, running for you and Achardor. He is pursued by many spiders, but they fall back at your united front. The Hidden Guard bunches closer together as you forge deeper into the winding valleys until Mazog once again attempts an escape. Issuriel is the only one of you able to pursue him. It takes the rest of you too long- Issuriel and Mazog both are dying now.

This is not something you have power over. Ordinary venoms and those of the lesser of these great spiders your runes may cast out, but there are many good reasons to fear this part of Mirkwood, and the venom of its spiders is prominent among them. Rare flowers and pieces of the deadly spiders would make it difficult enough, but the preparation must be done just so or else it will do nothing- or, if muddled badly enough, prolong the victim’s suffering. Issuriel refuses the single dose you scrape together and you think that you are getting very, very tired of friends choosing not to protect themselves. Mazog recovers, and he watches Issuriel curiously. Achardor rages.

You understand it as well as any of the others, truly you do. So many troubles have befallen the Hidden Guard already and still you have so far to go. It seems an impossible task. But Achardor is not the only one here who carries grief caused by Mazog and his folk, nor is he the only one who fears for Issuriel. He rails at fate, at the spiders, at the dwarves on whom he blames so many of your troubles. You know Bróin far better than Achardor does or cares to- you know that if he is not here he has good reason, though you might wish he had shared it. You know he is not _fleeing_ , whatever Achardor thinks, and you know that he will not turn aside, not now. He too has put much into this mission.

“We should never have come here. You should have just killed this one and be done with it,” Achardor spits, glowering at Mazog. Mazog laughs.

You should let it go. You should ignore Achardor and find Bróin. You don’t.

“If you think all this the height of folly, and have since the beginning, why then did you beg Lord Celeborn to send you?” you demand. “So that you might be the one to claim his death?”

Mazog is laughing still.

Bróin bursts into the storeroom before you or Achardor can worsen the argument. He has another dose of the antidote, though Issuriel is barely conscious enough to drink it. Mazog is scowling and Achardor is dazed. Issuriel will recover, but for the time being she can barely walk. She watches the Hidden Guard depart with heavy eyes.

You are not yet calm enough to be more than polite to Achardor, even when he begins to speak well of Bróin and of dwarves in general. You wish, later, that you had teased him perhaps. That you had responded with something more than simple nods.

Bori is not among the dwarf captives presented to you. Gorothúl laughs but Mazog, for once, is silent.

You feel the cold creeping up on you, like fingers sliding around your neck from behind until you think you cannot breathe. “What is this?” Bróin asks beside you, shivering. The others are looking around too for some source to this chill. You know what this is. _Nazgûl_. Not one, weakened, but three in all their dreadful glory.

You were fools to come here, you think as the weight of their presence nearly drives you to your knees. Achardor was right.

And yet, it is Achardor who throws himself at the Nazgûl that the rest of you might escape. You run, and you do not stop running until Ost Galadh rises before you. You collapse beside Bróin, gasping for every breath. Sigileth tips her head to the trees and screams. Cúcheron curls into himself at the foot of a large tree and you cannot tell if he is sobbing or recovering his own breath. Issuriel hobbles out of the outpost minutes later. She meets your eyes and you can see the pain in them. She knows something terrible has happened.

The remnants of the Hidden Guard, Bróin included, sleep tangled together and exhausted on the floor of the storeroom. Your mission has failed. You decide, come morning, that you must do what you can to aid the Malledhrim with their larger goal.

You do not rightly expect that in so doing you will rescue Bori- indeed, you believe him in your heart to be dead already. And yet, by some miracle, you find him still alive in the final assault on Dol Guldur. You think to place your ward on him for the escape, but you have already placed it on Sigileth. Her dream was too foreboding for you to let her go unprotected. You feel the tether between you and the ward snap and you fear for Sigileth, but you see her among the wounded after the battle and not the dead.

You are welcomed into Lórien and you know you may stay, but you are not quite done and this was not quite a victory. The dwarves of the Iron Garrison acknowledge this, but few of them truly understand. Bori and Bróin do, but even their words do little to settle you. Zigilburk is sealed and you think you might be allowed some rest, but you find instead that you are rest _less_. You make your farewells to the Iron Garrison and laugh at the party they throw for you. You have learned enough Khuzdul to thank them properly by now, and they cheer your progress. Bori and Bróin have learned a formal Sindarin expression of thanks when you were not paying attention and you are too shocked to hear elvish words from dwarven lips to properly respond for some time.

You think you will return here eventually. There is still much to be done and to see in the depths of Khazad-dûm. You wander again, and though the thought crosses your mind you do not set foot in the northern reaches of the Greenwood. You do not know what you would do if you went home. You are less than sure that it still is home.

You receive a letter of summons from Lord Elrond. So much for rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cúcheron deserves to be more memorable than he is. it's hilarious every time he comes running out of that one path in the scuttledells just going 'not this way not this way spiders!' being chased by like. a small army of spiders
> 
> have you ever had someone with cold hands just like. cup the back of your neck (probably with the express intent of inflicting cold on you)? that's kinda how im imagining the nazgûl here

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i'm not as happy with this one as with most of the others here, but. idk why or how exactly to fix it so here ya are
> 
> that does mark the last of the epic companions here though, at least as far as i've gotten. will probably keep adding things into 'fears' off and on as inspiration and time strikes me


End file.
